The Greasy Grabs of Glue Gun Gus
by Mikel Midnight
Summary: The Sandman and The King, in the 1940’s, had both reformed their respective femmes fatale and brought them around to the side of the law; now these two women meet for dinner to compare notes, and find themselves enmeshed in a mystery.


The maître' d of Il Maiale Viola is a middle aged man, of average height and somewhat slender build. His dark hair is combed immaculately, every hair in place. He wears a black, conservative suit, black silk shirt and tie. He approaches the two women, one brunette and one blonde, smiling pleasantly. "Hello again, Miss Belmont. A pleasure as always. I notice Mr. Dodds is not with you this evening. Your usual table?"

Dian Belmont laughs lightly. "Something a little less romantic, I think." She looks around the room. "Someplace quiet though. And we'd each like a glass of Bordeaux, I think."

He gives a half-bow, "Very good, Madame. Please, walk this way." With a slight swish of his hips, he leads the two women on a winding path through the small tables of the restaurant. As they reach a corner booth, he reaches into his pocket for a small book of matches, and lights a small candle in the center of the table. As the women seat themselves, he snaps his fingers to summon the waiter and departs after some pleasantries to obtain a suitable pair of drinks.

The blonde woman looks around. "I love the decor here, Dian. Thank you for inviting me."

Dian smiles. "My pleasure, Effie." She lowers her voice. "I was glad we were able to make time. We have a lot in common, after all."

Ephelba numbers off a list on her hand, her voice matching the other's tone. " Our predilection for elegant dress and face-concealing masques? Our similar weaponry? Our taste for dashing men in masks? Our taste in wine?"

Dian grabs the other woman's hand and lowers it to the table. "I can't tell you how special that makes me feel. I never thought of myself as being a 'type,' but I guess we are two peas in a pod at that." She sighs. "No, actually I meant something else, though it's tied in to all that other stuff."

The other woman raises an eyebrow, but silences her question as the maitre'd returns. He upends each of their glasses, and opens the bottle of wine, handing the cork to Dian. She purses her lips and drops it into the ashtray at the end of the table as he pours a sample of the wine into her glass. Trying to imitate Wesley's flourish, she swirls the wine around and sniffs it, and takes a small sip. "Quite acceptable, thank you." She extends her glass as he fills it, before going on to fill Ephelba's glass.

"Oh Giuseppe," says Dian, "your lovely dark eyes are usually so calm. What is the matter, dear friend?"

The maître' d sighs slightly, and leans down to murmur to the women. "Thank you for your concern, Miss Belmont. It is nothing to bother yourself about. It is a small matter of grease thieves."

Dian and Ephelba look at one another, and back at the maître' d. "Grease thieves?" they say, simultaneously.

The maître' d sighs again. "Grease thieves are prowling about restaurants after hours, stealing gallons of the stuff and selling it to rendering plants for use as soap, cattle feed, cosmetics, and explosives."

Dian makes a silent o with her mouth. "What ... what do you usually do with grease? I had no idea it was such a market."

He nods, "The rendering companies pay up to 5 cents a pound for used grease, picking up sealed containers left outside by restaurants. But thieves are arriving first, carting it off and selling it on the sly for 3 cents a pound."

"Is it really such an ongoing problem?"

"I have been getting hit twice a week for the past two months. I have been losing as much as 100 pounds four or five times a month. They keep coming and breaking my locks."

Dian o's again. "What have the police said?"

"They promise me they'll look into it," says the maître' d sadly. "I don't think they've done any such thing. Maybe because I'm Italian, I don't know."

She frowns. "That doesn't sound right. You know I have some contacts on the police force, Giuseppe. Let me look into the matter."

He nods and smiles, "Thank you Miss Belmont, that's very generous of you. Please, accept dessert tonight at our expense." He quickly wanders off to hover over another table."

Dian looks at her friend. "I think I've just been manipulated. You're being very quiet, Effie."

Ephelba shakes her head, "Just thinking. You're not really going to go to the police with this, are you?"

Dian laughs. "Of course not. Why spoil our evening out?" She winks, "I think The Witch and The Lady In Evening Clothes deserve to have some fun tonight, too."

"If the thieves even come tonight. At least the weather's cool this time of year. It'll keep us awake. So, what were you saying?"

Dian looks down at the tabletop, tracing back through their conversational paths. "Oh," she looks back up and takes a breath. "Did I ever tell you how I first met Wesley?"

Ephelba shakes her head, "Your father's a D.A. isn't he? I always just assumed you were assisting him on a case and came upon the Sandman spying on the police in the ladies' room, or something." She winks.

Dian hides her smile, "Oh, that's what we ought to tell people, anyway. Dad and Wes have done a lot to hush up what really happened. When ... " she searches for the words.

Ephelba sits silently, waiting for her friend to tell her story.

"You know, I've donned the Sandman's suit a couple of times ... once even to rescue Wesley. And once or twice, very early on, I helped Wesley on his cases in a sort of makeshift costume, I even called myself Sandy. That was before my younger cousin showed up of course. He's Sandy now, and I never took the name all that seriously anyway. It just seemed better than 'Sandwoman.'"

"But none of those are what you picked. You called yourself The Lady In Evening Clothes ... which doesn't exactly roll trippingly off the tongue, dear."

Dian smirks, "I didn't pick the name. I guess my fame was fleeting, which is just as well I suppose. It's the name the newspapers gave me, when I was the most notorious cat burglar in New York City."

Ephelba's mouth drops open. "You?" she says, loud enough for tables next door to hear. She looks around, and lowers her voice sheepishly. "You are kidding with me. The D.A.'s daughter?"

"I didn't know Larry Belmont _was_ my father at the time ... well my upbringing is another long story. But the Sandman brought an end to my career and instead of taking me in, reunited me with my father. He must have seen something in me? I've been making it up to him ever since."

Ephelba sips at her wine. "I gave poor King a much harder time than that, I'm afraid. But I've been trying to make up, too. So you kept the name to .. ?"

"To redeem it. And maybe there's a bit of ego in there too ... that name referred to _me_ and not just an extension of Wesley. As much as I love acting as his partner and don't really want to by a full-time mysterywoman otherwise. Even though I am enjoying my little bit of adventuring with him and my nephew."

Ephelba waves her silent as the waiter approaches carrying the menus. She gives the young man a glittering smile and sends him on his way. "Enough flashbacks. Let's talk about food. What do you recommend?"

* * *

The blonde woman opens her mouth and exhales, watching in the dark as her breath forms a cloud of steam. That makes it officially cold, she decides, and pulls her jacket closer about herself.

She reaches across and squeezes the arm of the woman next to her. "Dian? Still with me?"

The Lady In Evening Clothes turns her eyes from her binoculars. She yawns and nestles down into the parka she had thrown over her gown, shifting atop the picnic blanket the two of them had lain over the roof of the building across the street from the restaurant. "Sorry, I drifted off. It's been years since I had, ah, 'cased a joint.' Why did I let you talk me into this, again?"

The Witch grins at her, "I thought you'd talked _me_ into it."

Eve rubs her eyes. She passes the binoculars to the Witch in an offhand manner. "Please, take these," she says, "my eyes are getting strained."

The Witch hunches her shoulders slightly and settles down to watch, then reaches over to pinch Eve on the shoulder. "You missed your chance; I think our boy just drove up." Eve pulls the binoculars back and watches the garishly dressed man who lumbers from his car and into the alley behind the restaurant.

The pair swing down the nearby fire escape, moving quickly and silently for two people wearing spike heels. Arriving at the alleyway, Eve shouts, "Halt! You're under arrest!"

"Mon dieu!" exclaims a man dressed in an ugly green jumpsuit. He is wearing a purple beret and matching goggles, as well as purple gloves and boots. He is carrying a pail of glue, which is connected to a gun. He looks the two women up and down. "What fine femmes 'ave come to greet zee eyes of Glue Gun Gus!"

Oh swell, thinks the Witch. "We're the Crime Crusaders Club, and we're taking you in for, ah, grease theft." The Witch runs at Glue Gun Gus and tries to grab the gun, but gets glooped before she can grab it. "Ew," says the Witch.

"That's enough," says Eve, readying her gas-rifle. Glue Gun Gus moves surprisingly quickly, his glue sealing Eve's weapon before it is able to fully discharge. The mists of sleep dissipate harmlessly into the air, smelly faintly of violets. A second blast from the glue gun secures her to the ground of the alley. She sighs.

The Witch peers at the villain. "Oh, I suppose you proved too clever for us girls, um, Mr. Glue Gun."

Glue Gun Gus smiles, fingers twirling his mustache debonairly. "Few women can reseest zee charms of zee man with zee pail of glue."

The Witch smiles back. "So I see. You know, I was a criminal before I joined the King. Maybe I should rethink my strategy here. I can certainly see the advantages of being conjoined in a union with as brilliant a criminal as yourself."

Glue Gun Gus swaggers over to the Witch, his eyes running up and down her voluptuous form. "So tell me more," he whispers, running his hands along her sides.

"Well," she whispers into his ear, as she reaches down to grab his glue pail and upend it into his face, "You really are an idiot."

"Aargh," he ejaculates, as he staggers backwards. "Swing batta!" shouts the Witch.

The Lady In Evening Clothes says, "You don't have to tell me twice," as their opponent stumbles within reach, and she swings the butt of her rifle into his head, knocking him out.

They watch him fall to the floor.

"Can you get yourself free?" asks the Witch.

The Lady In Evening Clothes just shakes her head. "I can't even let go of this gun."

The Witch furrows her brow. "Sandman is a chemist, couldn't you ... "

"No!" shouts Eve, "absolutely not! That would just be too ... humiliating."

"More humiliating than being caught by the police in the morning, like this?"

"Um. We'll think of something."

The Witch peers at the unconscious criminal again. "If he starts to wake up, just hit him in the head again."

"Ohhh I will," notes Eve. "You can count on that."


End file.
